Dogs of India

by Polly McGee

  The night of work had been on autopilot. She’d willed herself to put some love and emotion in the food and cook it like Poona would have wanted. She’d put on a clean apron and served up the food, telling the guests the stories of local provenance like Poona would have. It was all she could do.

  The unfamiliar sound of her mobile phone ringing startled her for the second time that day. The first had been the shocked voice of Baj telling her why he wouldn’t be back in time for service. Lola answered it quickly, hoping it was Baj with an update from the hospital. Actually, she realised with surprise, she was hoping it was Baj. It wasn’t. It was Niz.

  Over the crackling line that stretched from Darlinghurst to Delhi, he told her he’d got her message. There was no problem, he said. He and Amit had fixed the issue. The money had been paid in full, and there was nothing to worry about, he said. They had called their contacts to check that everything was in place, the three months were nearly up, so it wasn’t so hard to be Indian daughter-in-law, actually. The local police station had been supplied with a copy of the notice of the marriage that had been published thirty days ago and all the necessary government certifications were provided. They had even arranged the witnesses. A one-way ticket had been booked home for her and her new husband. Details of where the ceremony was to take place would be texted to her shortly. He and Amit should have been wedding planners, isn’t it? Now she just had to show up – or else, he said. Niz’s laugh had a subtle threat in it.

  ‘Lola, are you there, can you hear me?’ Niz was shouting through the static.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lola, ‘I can hear you.’ Her head was spinning. She had only just recalibrated her life to its present coordinates. She had felt a deep sense of relief that she had dodged the bullet of her own stupidity in agreeing to the arranged marriage. Apparently, that bullet had ricocheted off a cunning pair of Indian brothers and lodged back in her chest.

  ‘But who am I marrying? I thought the deal with Geet was off.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that jhalla staying ghand mallu.’ More giggling from Niz. ‘You’re marrying his papa-ji, Gajrup, actually.’

  Lola barely registered the hang-up. The sound of her phone connecting with the bench made a sharp crack.

  ‘Holy fucking shit!’ Lola said, as Sita made her usual sweeping entrance into the kitchen.

  ‘I know, right? What kind of a place are we living in? Men trying to rape elderly ladies.’ Sita dropped her handbag on the floor and picked up Lola’s cold, half-eaten dinner, wolfing it down. She scoured the pots for edibles. ‘Is there any more food, Lola? I’m starved.’

  ***

  Baj arrived moments later, having done a hasty loop of the dining room and finding it immaculate.

  ‘Sorry, Lola. You are doing the perfect hostess and host actually …’ Baj stopped and nodded at Sita, his shyness amplified with the addition of another intimidating female into the mix.

  ‘Baj, how is she? When can we see her?’ Sita spoke through a mouthful of cold chapati.

  He shook his head. ‘I am knowing tomorrow still.’

  ‘It’s too awful. And the dog Rocky, he saved her?’

  Baj nodded this time. Lola handed Sita a bowl of dhal. She inhaled it.

  ‘Lola, this is divine. I haven’t eaten since some day-old dosa I found in the fridge at work.’

  Lola smiled as Baj rubbed his stomach and held his hand to his mouth. His beautiful eyes were tired, though he somehow seemed more handsome than usual. She served him up a bowl of gravy and rice, fishing out the last kofta from the bottom of the pot. Baj ate while he helped Lola tidy up. Sita gathered some details from the few Baj knew. It was unclear if the attacker had raped Poona or whether Rocky had dispatched him first. They all hoped the latter.

  Sita was incensed. ‘We are no better than dogs in this city. Every day another woman is raped or mutilated.’

  Lola became more distressed as Baj described to Sita what he had seen on arrival, tears welling up in her eyes. Baj saw her face and panicked. In an attempt to stop the emotional storm breaking, he told the girls about bringing the animals to his apartment and the Noah’s Ark apocalypse that remained behind the closed door. It was so comical that by the end, the tears were from laughter. Baj posed so Sita could grab a close-up photo for the story.

  Sita checked her phone, which was beeping with incessant texts.

  ‘It’s my intern, Krishna, he has lots more footage from the citizen reporters on Poona’s rape. Thank God for camera phones and inquisitive citizen journalists,’ she said as she began to gather up her things. ‘Gotta go, gotta get this baby to press.’ She flicked her gaze up at Baj mid-movement. ‘Baj, do me a favour. Can you send me a close-up photo of Rocky tonight and let me know as soon as Poona can talk? This story is going to start a revolution for Indian women.’

  As Sita went to leave, she grabbed some fruit off the bench and shoved it in her bag with a wink. ‘Thanks for feeding me, Lola. You’re amazing. And who knows when I’ll eat again!’

  Baj watched her retreat. ‘She is a firecracker that Sita-ji.’

  Lola nodded admiringly. ‘Baj, I need a drink,’ she said as she moved to hang her apron over the hook, a sign that the evening’s work was finally over. ‘Is there alcohol stashed anywhere?’

  Baj nodded. ‘I have a bottle of the Johnny Red in my apartment left from Godboley-ji.’

  ‘Eww, whisky.’ Lola grimaced, then shrugged. ‘It’ll have to do.’

  They walked across to Baj’s apartment, the quiet, starry night intermittently shattered by joyful Diwali explosions. Just like the first night they had walked there together, before everything had changed, then changed again.

  ***

  On arrival, ground zero was surprisingly intact. Baj very quietly turned the key and peeped through the door, not wanting the refugees to take fright or flight. Inside the apartment, several plants looked a little nibbled on, and there was a hint of monkey urine in the air. Rama was lying on his back, sound asleep on the newspaper, his sandy-haired tummy rising and falling with each breath. Rocky was snoring in his spot near the door with Yanki nestled in between his outstretched legs.

  Lola was astonished. ‘Did you drug them, Baj-ji?’ she whispered as they crept in.

  After a short flurry when they entered, the fur, teeth and tails settled and sleep was resumed. Lola and Baj sat on the floor, wincing as they sipped the dead man’s whisky from mugs.

  ‘Just as bad as I remember it.’ Lola swallowed quickly. Baj brought the cup to his mouth, determined to act suave like his filmy heroes and first-class scoundrels did when they manfully took a swig of neat liquor before delivering some devastating line to their heroines. He breathed in a lung of whisky fumes as he swallowed, coughing dramatically.

  ‘Shhh.’ Lola giggled. ‘You’ll wake the ark.’

  Baj took another sip, this time without mishap. The tension and stress began to loosen their grip on his muscles and bones. Lola watched Rocky sleeping peacefully.

  ‘I can’t believe he even survived the amputation,’ she whispered to Baj.

  ‘How did you cut it off Lola-ji, are you carrying the knife next to your lipstick actually in your purse for kutta surgery?’

  ‘It was Gajrup’s knife.’

  Baj was surprised and impressed at her mettle as Lola paused before she threw back the rest of her drink and poured another. She offered the bottle to him.

  ‘Lola-ji, you will be getting yourself drunkle if you are taking the Johnny so happily.’ Baj poured himself another one, not wanting to be left behind.

  ‘You’ll be getting drunkle yourself,’ she said.

  Baj puffed up his chest and assumed the look of a man who was a seasoned drinker. He was ready to make conversation now.

  ‘When is your birthday, Lola-ji?’

  Lola laughed. ‘It’s 20 January. I’m a Capricorn, I’m very romantic, I like amputating dog’s ears, finding dead bodies and being surrounded by wild animals in confined spaces.’

  Baj nodded. Her interes
ts were impressive. ‘Capricorn, but you are cusp of Aquarius, na?’

  ‘Oh, Baj, don’t tell me you’re into star signs as well as starlets.’

  Baj looked slightly embarrassed, but began to chuckle as Lola laughed infectiously at her own joke. He continued his impromptu astrological reading. ‘You should wear the ruby stone in a ring or a necklace. It is good luck for you.’

  ‘C’mon, Baj. Have you been reading up on pick-up lines in your Bollywood gossip mags? How do you know all this?’

  Baj wasn’t sure what she meant. ‘Mummy-ji was an astrologer. She taught me everything before she died.’

  ‘Sorry, Baj,’ Lola reached out and squeezed his knee, ‘that was mean of me to make fun.’

  Baj remained perfectly still, staring at her hand as if a precious bird had landed on him and he didn’t want to scare it off.

  ‘What about you, Baj?’ she asked, returning her hand to her own knees. ‘When’s your birthday?’

  ‘I am birthing next week, Lola-ji. And on that day, we will have our surprise outing from tonight.’

  ‘Oh the outing, I’d totally forgotten after Poona’s ordeal. I think I’d like to have a few less surprises at the moment.’

  ‘It is my birthday wish only that you are accompanying me.’

  ‘That sounds like a scene from Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi,’ teased Lola.

  ‘I thought you were not knowing Bollywood films,’ said Baj, surprised.

  ‘Only that one.’ Lola didn’t elaborate further. ‘My presence at your birthday is your present then, Baj-ji, and you know I could take you down in a golgappa-eating contest right, so don’t even try.’

  Baj splashed Johnny into both their cups.

  ‘Here’s to being born,’ said Lola. They clinked their mugs in a toast.

  Rocky rolled in his sleep, crushing Yanki a little. She promptly cuffed him, waking them both. Rocky sat up, yawned wide, his one ear proudly raised. Yanki sat framed by the arch of his front legs. They looked like a justice-league poster for the vulnerable women of New Delhi.

  ‘Quick,’ Lola whispered through her teeth to Baj, attempting to talk quietly. ‘Get the camera. This is the shot for Sita.’

  ‘My phone’s on the table. If I move, they will move.’

  Lola gestured with her head to her phone, lying on the floor next to Baj.

  He lined up the shot and took a portrait that would, in a matter of hours, circle the world. ‘Perfect, actually,’ he said. He smiled at the image he had captured, showing Lola as he texted it to himself to send to Sita. Baj settled next to Lola. It was just like the last time when they stood on the balcony together, the electricity from her closeness prickled dangerously at his shoulder. Baj was disappointed that his night out with Lola had been ruined, but perhaps instead the gods had delivered him something better.

  ***

  Lola liked the feeling of Baj next to her. Like Roshan, he was tall and slight, but there was a solidness to Baj that had nothing to do with his build. Lola allowed herself to lean very lightly against his shoulder. She waited, holding her breath to see if he would flinch or pull away. They both sat in the moment, like countries that had just discovered a shared border. Neither speaking, just testing out their new configuration.

  Even as the warmth of Baj’s arm on hers felt comforting and maybe even momentous, Lola began to slip back into the anxiety that waited just below the surface of her thoughts, despite her attempts to anaesthetise her brain with whisky. Why did some drama or another always have to be going down when she got a moment alone with Baj? She didn’t want to be thinking about Gajrup, or Geet, or those scheming brothers. She just wanted to revel in the feelings she had for a man who appeared to be free from agendas. He loved dogs, he loved a monkey god with people in its chest, he loved his job, his lot and maybe, maybe, he loved her.

  A text beeped on Lola’s phone, lying post-photograph next to Baj.

  ‘Someone is texting you, Lola-ji.’

  ‘Probably just the daily greetings to India from a random phone company who wants my bandwidth,’ she said. ‘You read it to me.’

  Baj picked up her phone without moving so that they stayed connected at the shoulder, and read out the text. ‘Your wedding to Gajrup Ramdas confirmed 9 November at midday. Civil Lines police station, everything arranged as discussed. Just turn up and you’ll get paid.’

  Niz had texted the details of her wedding, as good as his word. Baj’s mouth stayed open.

  Lola sat bolt upright, the whisky and romance buzz killed. She grabbed the phone and read the text herself. As she opened her mouth to try to explain, the front door flung open and Vipin entered, carrying a pile of pashminas so high that it obscured his face. The animals leapt up, surprised by the intrusion.

  ‘Vipin, door!’ Baj yelled.

  It was too late. Before Baj or Lola could get their limbs moving, the fugitives were free again. Baj stumbled into the grounds of Hastinapuri Estate, pulling on his shoes and shouting for the sleepy guard on the gate to stop them, his voice trailing off with the obvious futility of it all. Lola fled.

  ***

  The office of the New Delhi Times was deserted but still felt like a hive of activity. Faxes streamed in with media releases, computer screens flickered with screensavers and a bank of televisions on mute ran the news of the world at hyper speed. Sita had one last job before she could head home, although bunking down under her desk felt pretty appealing right now. She dialled the number it had taken her all night to track down. The rings clicked over into a sweet, vivacious recorded voice.

  ‘Hi, this is Preity, I can’t wait to chat. Leave me a message.’

  ‘Hi, Preity, this is Sita Unival, editor-in-chief of the New Delhi Times. I think your dog just stopped a woman from being raped. Oh, by the way, your husband told me you were dead. If that’s true, don’t worry about returning my call.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Somebody That You Used to Know

  The media gathered in the garden of Gaurav’s house: television camera, microphones and a small scrum of reporters. He came out to stand under the frangipani tree, he then seemed to check the ground before he moved slightly to the left and faced the journalists. The media scrum packed close, ready to capture the next chapter from the acting acting director in the unfurling drama that had dominated the news for the past few days.

  Round One had definitely gone to the dogs. The video footage of Rocky leading people to the injured Poona had gone viral, as had the photo Baj had captured of Rocky and Yanki: the valiant foot soldiers of women’s rights. The story of the attempted rape of Poona in broad daylight had unleashed an outpouring of rage from women around the country. Enough was enough. Sita was interviewed constantly. As the reporter who had broken the story of Poona, she had also linked it to the horrifying statistics of women’s rape, torture, murder and suicide on the subcontinent that rarely seemed to make an impact in between sport, industry and war.

  Sita had started something of a movement with a beautifully crafted sound bite in a live television interview: ‘The national reaction to this appalling attack has comprehensively demonstrated that women will no longer be the dogs of India.’

  As that clip was played and replayed on news services from New Delhi to New York, something snapped for the women of India. Many victims rose up and named their rapists. Many more told stories they had kept as secrets from their families and communities in fear of their reputation, or worse, brutal repercussions. They were the dogs of India no more.

  And neither were the dogs of India merely dogs. Social media was clogged with memes showing a one-eared dog with a halo of light radiating from his head, and the hash tag #thankdog in bold letters. The pariah dogs of streets, parks and communities began to receive offerings of food, and their right to congregate was finally honoured and acknowledged. For now, the place of dogs in the hearts of New Delhiites had shifted from the recent calls for extermination to their rightful kutta-fication. The 24-hour news cycle was hungry, but Sita knew its
appetite relied on variety. Five days had passed since the hideous incident with Poona, and she had ensured that the story had dominated the news on every channel possible. The trick was to keep it going.

  Poona had, of course, given Sita exclusive rights to her story and the first interview. Sita arranged a video feed of them discussing the attack and the problems for women and dogs on the streets. They took intimate shots of Poona patched up in the hospital suite in Sant Parmanand, looking elegant and poised despite her ordeal. Poona praised the efforts of her human rescuers, making sure to acknowledge the speedy response of the local police and ambulance service. But the majority of her praise was for Rocky. She gave him full credit for striking her attacker before he was able to rape her. Poona had a small cut on her cheek, a badly dislocated shoulder and concussion, but these were trivial injuries, she said, in the face of the suffering of others who hadn’t been lucky enough to have a hero pariah dog sent from God. Poona talked in her hospital gown about the dog refuge she was going to set up to protect and promote India’s native dogs. Donations had flooded in from around the world to fund her work. Sita was amazed at the mobilisation of money, information and action. And a little bit smug about her role – and very smug about the enormous spike in sales of the paper and hits to their website. But she wasn’t done yet.

  ***

  Gaurav looked for the subtle mark he had made earlier to stand on to ensure he had the best possible position in front of the cameras. He moved into place, then stared into the eye of the camera, his head in precise left profile.

  ‘You’ve heard a lot this week about courageous dogs. I know a lot of you were thinking, That Gaurav, he’s wrong. Those animals aren’t the problem he was making them out to be. Well I’m here to tell you that you are being conned.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘Think the dirty street kutta are cuddly little heroes? Well, I have proof that they are ticking time bombs that at any moment could tear your mother, wife or child, to pieces.’

  The gathered media gasped as Gaurav lifted his shirt to reveal a massive suppurating wound, fierce bite marks and angry scratches along his side.